


Overheard

by Glaucopis



Series: Tales of the King [1]
Category: DA:O - Fandom, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Added another chapter, Angst, Bromance, Introspection, M/M, Masturbation, Overhearing Sex, Sexual Confusion, Unresolved Emotional Tension, alistair digging himself into a problematic grieving progress, feelings of shame, missing moment i guess, what am I even doing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-21
Updated: 2016-10-25
Packaged: 2018-08-23 16:42:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8334865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glaucopis/pseuds/Glaucopis
Summary: Alistair wishes he had not put up his tent so close to Cousland's...  " [...]he felt himself blushing furiously, his cheeks and chest getting instantly hot and tingly like he knew they did when he was going red.Cousland and Zevran were... not bandaging anything, he at least knew that  much."





	1. Overhearing

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work ever published in english and on this platform, so please feel free to point out any mistakes if you find them! Of course the first thing I post is going to be porn...  
> Anyway I hope someone enjoys this and that you all have a great day/night, wherever you are!

 

 

The day had been long, and Alistair was positively exhausted. 

He had barely spoken while they all ate their cold and meagre dinner, reassured to see that he at least was not the only one unable to make conversation. The fighting had been unusually hard, that day, adding to the growing sense of dread that was starting to weigh down heavy on the party. The way to Denerim, where Eamon and the Landsmeet the Arl had called were waiting for them, was feeling harder and harder each passing day. 

The flickering light from the campfire had shown Alistair the same tired eyes and blank expressions he imagined were on his face as well, and some of the companions had already taken their leave, including Morrigan, who had all but dragged her feet to her tent a few minutes ago. Even Cousland was silent, although he still managed to shoot him one of his crooked, friendly smiles with his mouth full of bread. He was huddled close to Zevran and his shoulders were hunched with exhaustion. 

A Darkspawn had almost slashed his thigh open today, and Alistair had barely managed to deflect the blow enough to transform what could have been a grievous injury into an ugly scratch. His shoulders still ached from how hard he had to strain to push away the great-sword, but just the thought of having stopped that blow from hurting his friend made him light with relief. 

He grimaced back a smile and got up, stretching his pained back as best he could. He was going to wake up a ball of knots in the morning, but he had no patience for ointment or exercice before sleep – sweet, long-awaited sleep. He would gladly take the pain for a few more hours in his tent. Maybe Wynne could sort something out for him in the morning...

Alistair waved a vague gesture of goodbye at his companions, and went straight for his tent. He pushed his armor out of the way, unlaced his shirt with numb fingers, eyes already stinging with sleep, and crashed into his bedroll with a relieved sigh. He was sweaty and had probably failed to wash all the blood away from his neck, but right then he really, really, didn't care.

There were some footsteps outside and someone – maybe Leliana? - killed the fire, leaving the camp in relative darkness. Some more movement, the rustling of covers, tents flapping open and closed, candles blown and finally, silence. Alistair buried his face in his makeshift pillow – a wool cover he had rolled up on itself – and sighed happily. The weather was cool, but not too cold, and the wind barely a gust through the tents. If the nightmares were not too bad, Alistair felt he may be just about to get the best night of sleep he'd had in a while. 

Alistair was already drifting when something pulled him back from the edge of slumber. Malcontent, he turned over. Who in the Void was still moving around? 

The sound was very close, coming from the tent right next to his, which Cousland shared with Zevran. He had trouble making it out, tough. It sounded like breathing, but sharper, and there was quite a lot of rustling going on.

Alistair squinted in the dark, confused, wondering if they were in any danger, mapping out his sword's location in his head in case he was going to need it. It was really starting to sound like someone was hurt. What was he hearing? Maybe Cousland's injury was giving him pain? He thought that was him he heard panting, and perhaps Zevran was helping him bandage that leg up, because he was breathing heavily too and...

Realization hit him like a slap in the face and he felt himself blushing furiously, cheeks and chest getting instantly hot and tingly like he knew they did when he was going red. 

Cousland and Zevran were... not bandaging anything, he at least knew _that_ much.

Alistair shoved his face into his pillow, trying as best he could to drown out the sounds coming over from the other tent, the gasps, the sharp intakes of breath, and now Cousland's voice, unusually raspy, an octave deeper than he ever heard it, _actually moaning_...

“Oh, Maker...” Alistair pleaded, feeling his body react in the last way he wanted it to.

He inhaled deeply, trying to calm down. All was well. They were men, and healthy. The day had been long, and they needed to unwind. Who didn't? Honestly, he was lucky this was the first time he ever overheard anything, because they must have done this before, at camp. This was embarrassing, terribly so, but he was just going to ignore it and go back to sleep. He'd have forgotten all about it in the morning, and he would maybe just try and plant his tent a little further from theirs, next time. And yes, his cock was half hard, but nobody was ever going to know about it and honestly, given his _condition_ , Alistair had felt aroused for much less before, so if two men were – Maker forgive him – literally going at it inches from where he was laying, who could blame him? 

Whatever it was they were doing, anyway...

He blushed harder. Of course, he had to wonder. As inexperienced as he was, Alistair thought over the years he had gathered a somewhat clear picture of what could happen in bed between... people. For all of Morrigan's mockery, he knew he had it all pretty much figured out, well, the basics of it at least, right? But this... 

To Alistair's absolute dread, Cousland started speaking, or better, he was muttering something in a breathy voice, with the words coming out of his mouth half-formed, like they did when he had trained a little too hard and was gasping for air, which right now he very obviously was.

“Zev'...” Alistair overheard, despite his best efforts “ Maker, Zev', _please_ , your mouth... “

His voice was _pleading_ and Alistair was trying, he swore, he was doing his best not to listen but the sounds were so near and coming to him so clearly, he could make out the want in Cousland's voice and he could so easily picture him on his back, with his bare chest all tight like when they sparred together, his copper skin and black hair barely lit in the dark and the elf's head between his legs, doing _it_ with his mouth, licking and sucking with those thick, mocking lips of his... 

Alistair groaned, biting hard into the back of his hand to muffle the sound. His cock was now achingly hard, and he could not refrain from pressing his hips down into his thin mattress, the friction there so pleasurable, so inviting. 

Did the long strands of Zevran's hair tickle against the inside of his thighs? How would his mouth feel, so wet and hot, stretched all around his cock? Did his tongue move against the delicate skin of the underside? Alistair's hand found a way between his legs and he palmed hard at his length across the fabric of his breeches, so desperately erect it felt chocked in there, sending dull, maddening pushes of _need_ all across his lower belly.

Meanwhile, Cousland was getting less and less coherent by the second, and less and less restrained.

“Fuck, Zev, Maker, please...” he was moaning, voice chocked with what sounded almost like sobs, and Alistair had never seen nor heard Cousland cry, even when he spoke of his family, which made all of this at least ten thousand times worst “I am going to... Please, I'm going to spill in your mouth, Zev, your fucking mouth...”

Alistair wanted to cry. His hand had slipped under the hem of his pants and was now wrapped tightly around his cock, moving slowly up and down its length, while he listened to his best friend get pleasured by his lover. He knew he should at least go at it quickly, pump himself fast and hard and be done with it, but he didn't, he didn't, he was taking his time and wondering if maybe one of Cousland's large hands was holding the elf by the hair, fisting at the thick, blond locks that always looked so soft against Zevran's shoulders...

Alistair bit at his lip, hard. Why was he like this? He felt pathetic, filthy, and worst of all, alone. His tent was cold, despite the suffocating heat he felt on the flushed skin of his chest. Empty.

But now Cousland was groaning and Alistair could hear the wet, obscene sounds Zevran was making, and he even heard the elf hum in pleasure with his mouth full, a sound so insanely unlike anything Alistair had ever imagined, it made a clear drop leak from the tip of his cock, as he bit harder into his fist.

Suddenly something shifted in the other tent, and Cousland went quiet for a second, and Alistair thought that thank the Maker, it was over, but soon the noble-man was moaning again, except this time there were kissing sounds, and then Zevran was whispering something, devilish smile clearly audible in his words.

“Come, love, yes, like so...” he said, and he was panting too, now, voice tight and strained and breathless, “ You feel so good, amore, so good inside me...”

Alistair's mind came to the weirdest, most painful halt. He felt his face drain of blood and his mouth go dry, as he remembered the harsh words with which the Templar recruits used to tease each other, the insinuations, how vague and strange they all had sounded, and only now did he understand them fully.

 _Oh, Maker, he is putting it in his arse._

Whatever reaction Alistair thought the idea would cause him, he could never have anticipated how hard it made his cock twitch, how urgently it had him stroking himself, all but fucking his own hand with a chocked sob. Cousland and Zevran were now panting as one, shifting rhythmically inside the tent, thinking themselves alone, unheard, in the intimacy of each others' arms, unaware of Alistair's torment so close to them. 

Alistair's squeezed his eyes, pressing his hand even harder over his mouth as he imagined his cock thrusting inside Zevran's body, sinking in and out of it. How tight must that feel to be completely buried inside his arse, how warm, how all-encompassing, how much firmer than his own hand... 

The elf was whispering to Cousland, now, the little Alistair could make of it _so filthy_ he barely understood it, all “ harder” and “like so” and “amore, deeper, fuck me deeper”. The Warden was groaning with effort and Cousland's arms were _so strong_ , Alistair knew it because of how hard his blows landed against his shield, when they sparred, and of how fast his old sword was despite its weight, and he could not stop wondering how tightly they could close around Zevran's slender body, how hard he could grip at his flesh to press himself deeper and deeper inside him, to drag his arse against his hips in hard, sharp slaps. In Alistair's mind, Zevran was on top of him, sitting down on his cock, being pulled down quick and hard on it by Cousland's firm, calloused hands grasping his hips.

The Warden's voice carried over through the cool night air, so hoarse and graveled it sounded like an animal's growl.

“Zev...” he was begging, Maker, Cousland was _begging_ , a sound Alistair thought he would never, ever hear, asking Zevran to please come for him, he was going to come so hard inside him, he wanted to see him spill so much, everywhere, his open mouth so beautiful when pressed against his skin, so good, he looked so good, he was so beautiful, he felt so good, would he please, _please_ come for him? And Zevran let out a long, throaty moan, and Alistair could see it in his mind, the long streaks of spend coming out of him, his eyes squeezed shut but his mouth open wide and ripe for the taking, for his own hungry mouth to crash against his lips and drink on his muffled shouts while fucking him so good and deep...

Alistair came so hard his vision blurred, and he let out against his palm a strained shout so unexpectedly loud he prayed to the Maker it had gone unheard. 

When sound slowly rushed back to his thumping ears, and the last sharp spikes of release finally receded, his neighbours had gone still, but Alistair could hear them pant and laugh softly in each others' neck, lips kissing lightly at wet skin. 

Alistair bit back a whimper and wiped his hand somewhat frantically on his covers. It was shaking, and he pressed it against his eyes, teeth clenched hard, while a wave of shame crashed so hard on his body that it hurt him physically, making his guts churn like he was going to be sick, covering his forehead in a thin veil of cold sweat. He had made a mess on his covers and mattress. How could he have come so ridiculously much?

 _“Maker, what is wrong with me?_ ” Alistair wondered hopelessly, while Zevran and Cousland shifted gently in their tent, probably laying on one another to sleep, content, not knowing how disgusting their friend was, and how revoltingly he had just behaved. 

He asked himself how he could look them in the eye tomorrow. Would Cousland know? Would he see it in his face, how the friend he so trusted had thought about his and his lover's body the night before while touching himself? Would Zevran, teeth flashing white in mockery at the red of his cheeks and at the very idea of what he had done?

Lady Isolde had been right all along: Alistair really was nothing but a twisted, dirty, feral child. 

Would she know as well? They were supposed to reach Denerim in just a few days, and she could very well be there. Would she see it in his face too, would she turn to Eamon and say: “you see, dear husband, how I told you so”?

Alistair's breathing was getting out of control and he forced himself to slow it down, to hush it as much as he could. The last thing he wanted was to be overheard, to have Cousland notice his panicking and maybe mistake it for a nightmare. He would gently push Zevran aside and ask him through the thick fabric if he was alright, like he had so many times. Maybe he would come scratch at his tent flap to sit with him under the stars, listening to the tale of his dream like Alistair had listened to his before as well...

_“He's your friend, you sick fuck. A good friend, unlike you.”_

Alistair wanted to tell the voice in his head he agreed, about the friend part, but especially about the “sick fuck” thing. 

As he cleaned the mess he'd made as best he could with his cover, he started to feel a tingling at the corner of his eyes and no, _this, he refused_ , he was not going to fucking cry about it, about anything, really, not with the Blight and the Archdemon and the King thing and all the other important stuff looming over. 

Closing his eyes, Alistair exhaled a shaky sigh, and turned over, begging for sleep to release him from his thoughts. So close to him, he could hear Cousland and Zevran's slow, relaxed breathing, and felt that pinch in his chest, that was starting to become so familiar. Was it want, jealousy? Simply loneliness? He didn't care, didn't care, didn't want to know.

At last, with the heavy numbness of sleep finally washing over him, Alistair felt his shoulders relax a little, and wondered if maybe, when this was all over, someone would show him how all that felt.


	2. The Angry River

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, you guys... This spiraled completely out of control. I don't even know what to tell you all, I just kept going. Hope you like it anyway!

 

 

 

 

“You must be kidding me.”

Cousland was using his _Grey-Warden-Treaties voice,_ but to no apparent avail.

“I wish I was, Your Lordship,” Bann Arden sighed “ but the Drakon cannot be crossed safely. The dam has fallen to the Darkspawn, and the river has been surging ever since after each bout of heavy rain.”

They were standing in Marchtown hall, and Cousland was visibly angry. The old Lady Arden was seated next to the fire, her firstborn daughter beside her, quill and paper in hand, and her entire household watching from the other side of the large room.  
Alistair was uneasy, shifting his weight uncomfortably. He felt stared at by the entire folk of Marchtown, noble and common alike. 

“Fortunately, “ the Lady Bann was saying “ we believe it to be decreasing at the moment. Rain has been scarce these last weeks, and the water level is lowering. If Andraste's Grace is on us, the river may placate in the coming days.”

Cousland sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. Alistair knew he was thinking, evaluating their every possibility: he recognized the crease that formed between his friend's furrowed brows.

“I see,” he finally said, sounding tired, “I beg your pardon for my impatience, My Lady. I am certain you understand the urgency of our demand.”

“I very much do, your Lordship,” the old woman answered, smiling bitterly, “ I wish I could help you more, but unfortunately this matter is in the Maker's hands. I would advice you to try and reach Footlorn Bridge, but the journey might take you longer than the wait here would. It's a bargain I leave to your discretion.”

“I thank you, My Lady,” Cousland bowed, and Alistair did the same, feeling the meeting was over, “You have done all that was in your power to achieve. I would ask only one last thing of you: that you grant us permission to set camp on your land.”

The Bann nodded, an air of sorrow to her old features.

“It saddens me that this is the most we can do to assist your cause,” she said. “My estate isn't large enough that it could host your entire party as well as courtesy warrants, but you, My Lord Teyrn, are welcome to mine and my family's apartments, although they hardly befit your rank.”

If Cousland had felt anything, he had managed to conceal it perfectly. Well, almost. Only Alistair had noticed the subtle tensing of his jaw, the light twitch of his hand.

“My brother is Teyrn of Highever, if he still lives,” Cousland said, and his voice was maybe just a little too level to sound natural, “ My only title is Warden. I am honored, My Lady Arden, but I will be making camp with my companions.”

“I see,” she said, before turning to Alistair, who all but jumped under her gaze.

“Of course, it goes without saying that my invitation extends to you as well, Your Highness. We have received Arl Eamon's notice and we, the Bannorn of Marchtown, are proud to stand in the name of the Theirin line.”

Alistair stuttered and looked at Cousland for help. His friend raised his eyebrows at him, motioning towards Bann Arden with his head as discreetly as he could.

“Oh, well...” Alistair stammered, knowing very well that he was going red and that it was terribly embarrassing, “ Like my Brother Cousland said, erm... Thank you, but no.”

The Bann raised an eyebrow, but only for a split second, before recovering her composure.

“Your modesty honors you both,” she said, while Alistair prayed the Maker for a hole to dig himself in.

The old lady motioned to get up, and her daughter went to help her, but she waved her down and stood slowly on her own.

“The Blight has hit us hard, Grey Wardens,” she said, her voice echoing through the hall “Your passage here gives us hope, in a time when it is a scarce and precious commodity. Please, come to us with any demands, and Maker go with you.”

“Maker guard you, Bann Arden.” Cousland said, bowing low, “ _His Light shall be our banner._ ”

“ _And we shall bear it through the gates of that city,_ ” the old lady added, smiling softly.

She remained straight on her feet while Alistair and Cousland left the hall.  
They walked towards the road in silence for a while, the townsfolk that had remained outside gathered respectfully to watch them pass.

“Sodding river!” Cousland finally let out when they were far enough to be unheard.

“And sodding darkspawn, for a change,” Alistair added, relieved to be away from all these people.

Cousland didn't mention his disastrous intervention, and Alistair thanked him silently for it. They reached the others soon enough and reported the situation. The news were met with discontent, but Wynne wisely imparted:

“I'm sure Arl Eamon will wait for us before calling the Landsmeet.”

“The alternative would be quite embarrassing indeed,” Zevran noted.

Alistair would have smiled any other time, but he was far too busy avoiding to even look at the elf to appreciate his sarcasm.

When he had opened his eyes that morning, for one blissful instant, Alistair had remembered nothing of what had happened the night before. But that had lasted only that one second, and then it had all come crashing down on him. He had wondered if he could just lay in his tent forever and never come out, waiting until the Blight was lost and Darkspawn overran all of Thedas to just die there. But when Oghren had called him for the second time, he had no choice but to get out, lest his dwarven companion started dismantling his tent with him still in it.

He had thought long and hard of how embarrassing it would be when he saw Cousland again for the first time after last night, and thought he had imagined all the awful possibilities. He had been wrong, of course, because it had been much, much worse than everything he had ever anticipated. Anytime Cousland spoke to him for more than two seconds, the sound of his voice all breathy and raspy came back at him, and he had to cut the conversation short, before he started screaming. That's what he thought he would do, at least, but thankfully the occasion had not yet arisen. It was barely mid-day, though. There was still time.  
The worst part had certainly been Zevran, anyway. The presence of the elf in a ten foot radius made Alistair want to crawl out of his own skin. It's not like he had never noticed how handsome the elf was before. Oh no, that, he had already been painfully aware of from the start, and the heavy flirting the assassin had imposed on him had really not helped his cause. But he had never had such a clear, vivid picture of what bedding him would entail. Or at least, sound like. Maker, just by looking at him now as he spoke to Cousland, he could remember every single detail of what he had heard, and couldn't help but staring at his smiling mouth, wondering how it had looked like, all wet and sucking at the tip of a...

“We can finally do some laundry!” Leliana said happily, snapping him back to reality.

“Laundry!” he exclaimed, much louder than he intended, “What a great idea!”

Everyone frowned at his disproportionate enthusiasm for washing clothes, but said nothing. He nodded and walked away without another word, trying to put as much distance as he could between him, and Zevran and Cousland.  
All party members soon found some occupation, the routine of camp already deeply ingrained in each of them. Sten went to gather some wood with Oghren. Cousland, Zevran and Wynne opened the table and sat the Map on it, probably discussing routes and delays, and Morrigan had disappeared, as usual. Probably picking a small village child to eat for dinner, if Alistair had to guess. And Dog, well, Dog was looking at him with his shiny brown eyes, and he knelt to scratch him behind the ears.

“How would you like to be King of Ferelden, fur-ball?” he asked the Mabari with a dismal tone, “I'm keen on forfeiting the throne to you, if you want it.”

“So, did you need something washed?” Leliana said from behind him, startling him.

“Oh, Maker,” he said, standing up hastily, “Erm, yes.”

“Alright, give it here,” Leliana smiled, her hands already full of folded garments, “I'll start right now.”

“No, no!” he blurted out.

He could already hear the giggles and the whispers of “suspicious spots” on his covers. Leliana was looking at him, perplexed.

“Erm, I'll come with you,” he added hastily, “Lend you a hand.”

“Oh, very well,” she smiled, “Thank you, Alistair.”

“Yeah, no problem,” he said “Just let me go get my things.”

When he got to the river he could see very clearly what the Bann had meant. The current was so strong he could see entire trees carried by its running waters. There was no way a boat could cross the waters and get to the other side. Leliana had found a good spot, though, a little creek that had formed outside the river bed, and she was kneeling there, with her sleeves rolled up. It was weird to see the water flowing slowly over grass and bushes, like it was obvious it wasn't supposed to be there. The weather was nice and windy, though, and when Alistair dumped his covers in the stream, he felt instantly a little better. He started with those and soon moved on to the rest of the big pile Leliana had assembled.

“You are fast,” the sister noticed, her sweet accented voice soft and complimentary.

She was having some trouble herself, cleaning every shirt slowly and minutely. Alistair smiled and scratched awkwardly at his nose with his soapy hands.

“Templar chores,” he explained, “The bucket-heads don't joke around.”

She nodded knowingly and kept at her rubbing. After a while, though, she sighed and wiped her brow.

“Do you ever miss it?”she asked, going back vehemently on the dry blood spot that was resisting her, “The Chantry?”

Alistair shrugged and looked at the rumbling, furious Drakon roaring between the trees. He remembered the silence, the hours spent kneeling in the light of the altar, the smell of incense, the fights with the other kids...

“I don't think I ever belonged there,” he admitted, surprised at his own honesty, before adding: “When Duncan came...”

He swallowed back the ever-stinging pain the mention of that name caused him. Leliana waited patiently, taking care not to stare. Really, she was sweet.

“When I became a Warden, it felt much more like home than the Order ever did,” he concluded, meaning every word.

“I see,” she said, and there was some sadness in her voice as she added: “I, for myself, do miss it quite a lot.”

They were finally done, so he got up to tie some rope between the trees. The smell of fresh laundry was soothing to his senses, and the light shining between the trees made the creek shine like a broken mirror. It made him think of how much beauty this Blighted land still had.

“Do you plan on going back to it, after this is done?” he asked, securing the last knot.

“If she would have me back, yes,” Leliana said, a mysterious smile on her lips.

She flapped a large, wet wool cover over the rope effortlessly. He wanted to ask who “she” was, but refrained.

“It's always about the people, is it not? The causes we pick,” she whispered softly, giving him that sweet smile that always made it clear to him how good a Sister she would have been, one he wished he had met earlier in his life.

“I like to think it's also the ideas,” he answered quietly, Duncan's profile, Duncan's voice, Duncan's silhouette as he walked in front of him surging in his memory as clear as glass. 

And right next to him, sword unsheathed, eyes fiery and scanning the battlefield, silent listener and devout commander, stood Cousland.

“But I guess you are right,” Alistair murmured.

They exchanged a look, and he felt confident, relaxed, despite the bittersweet melancholy of his memories. He trusted Leliana, and heeded her advice. If anyone could help sort all of this out, it was her.

“Listen,” he started, breathing deeply, “ there's something I need to...”

“Maker, did you wash all of this?”

They both turned to see Cousland, staring at them with a funny, puzzled look.

“Pray excuse us, _noble Monsieur Cousland_ ,” Leliana mocked him, and of course when she did it, it was alright, “ Just because you have never touched a dirty pair of undergarments in your life doesn't mean everyone here is devoid of domestic qualities.”

“ _Je vous demande pardon_ , Sister,” he laughed, and even Alistair could tell his accent was hideous.

She winced theatrically and Cousland turned to him, still smiling.

“Alistair, shall we spar?”, he said, “I'm sure to go mad if I stay idle even one more minute.”

“Uh, sure,” he answered, thinking: “ _Please, no._ ”

“You go,” Leliana said to him, probably thinking she was making him happy, “I'll finish here.” 

“ _When, exactly, did the Maker turn on me?_ ” he wondered silently, tagging reluctantly after his friend.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for those amazing kudos and comments on the first chapter! They really made me feel great, and you all made feel super welcome!


	3. Wild Hearts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hitting each other is not healthy communication, y'all.

Cousland had found them a small clearing away from both the camp and the village, and showed him the way after they had gone back to get their things. It was large and flat, and really quite lovely. Alistair would have gladly just sat there, enjoying the sun, or done anything else other than this, really. Alone with Cousland, he felt that he could barely hold his gaze. Earlier, in Marchtown, there had been other people, a preoccupying matter of being late to a Landsmeet, a very explicit mission objective. Now, it was just them, swords, shields, and a whole lot of silence.  
On the other hand, Alistair thought as he checked the leather straps of Duncan's shield for any sign of damage, him and Cousland had done this so many times over the last weeks, it was really starting to feel like a comforting habit. Part of him hoped that maybe with a good fight, everything would get back to normal.  
Everything was so much simpler in a fight.

They tied their swords to their sheaths with thin rope and finished warming up their muscles. A joint pain was the last thing either of them needed right now, with all the battles yet to come. Cousland stretched his shoulders with a groan and took off his shirt, like he always did when sparring.

“The chill wakes me up,” he had explained jokingly, that one time Alistair had asked him why he did it. 

For his part, Alistair was uneasy enough with his body that he didn't feel the need to flaunt it unnecessarily, thank you very much.  
There were several weird bruises on Cousland's collarbone, Alistair noticed immediately, purple and fresh and painful-looking.

“Wow”, he blurted out, worried at the size of the oval spots on his friend's skin, “did you take a hit through your chain-mail ?”

Unlike Alistair, and to the Warden's immense frustration, Cousland never blushed. Maybe because the noble man's complexion was so much darker than his, and it would hardly even show if he did, Alistair had tried to reason himself. Fact remained: he never blushed, so it was much harder to tell if he was taken aback by something than it was with, say, him. But for a second there, Alistair could swear Cousland had looked just a little bit embarrassed. He smiled, raising his eyebrows in something of a guilty expression.

“Oh, these?” 

He cleared his throat, ran a hand through his black curls. 

“I guess someone got a little carried away last night, is all.”

Alistair frowned, not understanding for a second. Then it hit him, the size, the shape... He felt the usual, blasted redness flare all over his skin. 

“Oh, well, I didn't...” he stuttered, doing is best to push away the image of Zevran's panting mouth sucking hard into that flesh, “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to intrude.”

 _That's not what you thought last night._  
Maker, how he hated that one snarky little voice in his head, always prone to lash out something cruel at him. Cousland laughed at his contrition, but it was gentle, and he said with some mirth:

“Don't you worry. It's no use trying to hide them, anyway. I think it adds to his enjoyment.”

Alistair tried to focus on his posture as he picked up his shield. Cousland raised his sword, lowering himself on the wide, stable guard he so favored.

“I don't get it.” Alistair said, honest, “It looks painful. Why would you hurt the one you love?”

He regretted it immediately and spun his sword in his hand to give himself something to do other than hitting his own face as hard as he could with it. Why was he being so invasive? Was last night not enough? Had he not learned his lesson?  
Cousland didn't seem to mind and shrugged, starting to circle him slowly.

“ I wouldn't know how to explain,” he said, eyes alert, obviously starting to think out an angle to attack “ but when you get into a certain, well, _state of mind_...”

He lashed out from the left, but Alistair was ready. The sheathed sword clanked hard against his shield, vibrations spreading through his bones. Alistair pushed forward instead of back, trying to get into his space, but Cousland spun elegantly to his right and regained some distance from him.

“... you don't really think as usual,” he continued nonchalantly, like nothing had happened, “You don't think all that much anymore, really.”

Alistair went for his right flank but changed his trajectory at the last second, hoping to hit Cousland's sword-hand just above the wrist. His friend had seen him coming, though, and their swords met instead once, then twice, Cousland trying to press him into walking backwards to upset his balance. But Alistair was having none of it, feeling an inexplicable irritation starting to creep in at the back of his mind, and he met him hit for hit, waiting for an opening in his guard, not giving up a single inch.

“Do you mean it makes you dense?” he gritted out, surprised at his own vehemence.

He tried for the right but got deflected by the corner of his opponent's shield. The speed of the exchange had made Cousland's parry a little imprecise, though, and the spinning movement had the weight of his shield pulling him to the side, opening up his left flank just enough for Alistair to retract and slither back in.  
The blow landed, but with only his arm's strength behind it, it barely made Cousland flinch.

“Ouch,” said the man anyway, nodding his head in appreciation.

They re-positioned, Alistair finding he was gripping Oathkeeper's hilt a little too hard. Why was he angry? Like he needed even more unclear emotions, right now. Not being sure was only adding to his irritation. Cousland was studying his features intently, which was just the cherry on top of this giant pile of garbage.

“ I don't know if it makes one 'dense'.” Cousland finally answered, tracking the movement of Alistair's eyes in hopes of predicting his next move “ What I mean is it makes you do what feels right at the moment, without really thinking forward.”

 _Reminds you of anything?_  
Alistair decided to use his friend's focus on his eyes to his advantage. He very deliberately looked to his right flank, while moving for his left at the same time. It worked, and he managed to slip his sword under his shield and move completely inside his guard. Panic flashed for a second in Cousland's eyes, but he managed to keep his cool and unexpectedly grabbed Alistair's forearm with his shield hand, trapping his sword against his side and pulling. Alistair tried to go with it but Cousland spun and tripped him, sending him straight to the ground. 

“ Nice one.” Alistair had to admit, spitting a little dirt.

If his sword had been unsheathed, it would have cut open his flank completely, but in a real fight Cousland would also have been wearing his armor, saving himself from most of the damage. Alistair would always admire his friend's capacity to turn every situation around, especially when he was in a bad pass. He had the readiest of minds and reflexes fast enough to follow through.  
Cousland was offering him his hand and Alistair accepted it, hauling himself up. He was smiling again, a little out of breath, and in any other moment Alistair would have patted him hard on the shoulder and cracked a joke, but the memories of the night before were there again, all at once, and stopped his hand. Instead, he just said:

“You really got me good, there.”

Cousland let go of him, but his eyes were now inquisitive, his brows furrowed. Of course, he was perceptive. Feeling a question coming, Alistair took his guard and urged him on:

“Come on, one more!”

Cousland seemed to hesitate a little, but positioned himself nonetheless.

“Alright, Brother,” he nodded.

They stood still for a few moments, assessing each other in more ways than Alistair was comfortable with. To cut it short, he stepped forward, testing the waters with an easy to parry jag to the belly. Cousland easily blocked it and countered with much more ardor, aiming at his knee. Alistair's shield took the hit, and he angled it just so the blade would slide against the metal and keep going to his right. Cousland's back was now on him, the Warden quickly re-positioning himself to close off his guard, but it was too late. Alistair lunged forward and pushed at him with the flat of his shield, putting his back into it, strong enough to send him reeling backwards with a loud clunk.  
Cousland almost kept his balance, but misstepped and lost his footing, hitting the ground hard with his shield to try and keep himself upright. But Alistair was already on him, kicking his shield from under him and straddling him, pushing him down flat on his belly using only his weight. He pressed his sword to the back of Cousland's neck and sat there, panting, numb with adrenaline and a small peak of triumph.  
All but seated on Cousland's back, he could see that he had more of those bruises between his shoulder blades, and swallowed hard.

“Maker's breath, Alistair,” the man wheezed out, his chest constricted against the hard dirt, “ that was amazing!”

Alistair sprung up, getting off of him more urgently than he felt he would have under normal circumstances, and Cousland coughed a little, getting back up on his feet using his sword as a cane.

“Man, you hit hard,” he groaned once he was standing, massaging his shoulder with a wince, right where Duncan's shield had collided with his naked flesh.

A pang of guilt bit at Alistair's belly, and he laid down his weapons, moving in to help him. If he wounded Cousland too badly, it could hinder him on the battlefield. What if he got killed because of his stupid, unexplained burst of anger? What was he even angry about? The idea of Zevran hurting Cousland? The fact that he seemed to enjoy it? Was it pure envy, from seeing there were all these things people knew with each other to which he had no access?

“I'm sorry,” he said, fingers ghosting over the contused flesh, unable to touch, like he was going to taint it with his filth, his mind a ball of needles, his palms sweaty.

“Why sorry?” Cousland laughed, rolling his shoulder to show it was working fine, “ I'm just glad I'm no darkspawn, is all. Even more than usual.”

He raised his hand and ruffled Alistair's hair before putting his arm around his shoulders, like he had done so many times. His body was hot and Alistair found himself pressing against it, warmth spreading in his chest, wanting nothing more than to stay like this forever, his friend laughing right beside him, alive and well. 

Years later, standing in his huge, kingly room in Denerim, looking down on Cousland's broken shield, he would forever regret this instant, the words he had not dared to say, the secret he would have kept from him until he was gone and the chance had passed. How different would those last days have been? Would Cousland have not kept Morrigan's proposal a secret from him, if he trusted they were not angry at each other? Would Alistair have gone through with it, if he had known? Would they have faced the Archdemon together and walked out of the fight together as well, instead of everyone seeing their King step from that battlefield alone, eyes vacant, carrying nothing but Cousland's sword and half his shield?

But he didn't know all that yet, so he withdrew from his friend's touch and closed his arms around himself, uneasy, uncomfortable. Cousland frowned and asked:

“Alistair, is something the matter?”

And right there, he could've said: “Well, my friend, yes. Something terribly awkward happened last night, I really don't want to make you feel bad, but I'd rather it not happened again. I overheard you and Zevran, well, _doing it_ , and it's made me quite uncomfortable. Maker, this is so embarrassing. I think I have feelings about both of you but I have no idea what these feelings are, if it's just my inexperience talking, if I'm mistaking one thing for another. You see, I've never felt about anyone like I feel about you. I would follow you to the Black City's gates if you asked, and it sort of scares me. How do you know if it's _love_ love or just friend love?”

But instead, he turned away some more and said:

“What are you talking about?”

Cousland stopped, his hand fell back, and a pained expression went through his features.

“Is this about the Landsmeet?” he asked, and added: “You know I wish there was another way, but Arl Eamon...”

“It's not!” Alistair cut him short, the idea of discussing that other, terrifying thing far too much for him right then, “What are you on about? I know what I have to do.”

Cousland frowned harder, his temper starting to flare.

“Alright, Alistair, sorry for asking,” he said, a little sharp, “I was just wondering why you'd been acting so sodding stiff all the time.”

He picked up his shirt and put it back on, slung his shield over his shoulder, untied the guard of his sword from the sheath. He did all of this unnervingly slow, perhaps giving Alistair the time to try and say something again. When he didn't, Cousland just shrugged and walked off towards the camp, leaving him there. When he finally disappeared behind the curve of the road, Alistair unsheathed Oathkeeper and, with a cry of frustration, swung it hard against a tree. The sharp blade sunk so deep into the wood it remained stuck there. He left it sticking out of the bark and stood panting, before wiping his face with both hands.

“Maker,” he groaned, “why is this all so fucking difficult?”

If Duncan was there...  
But Duncan wasn't, he thought bitterly. They were all that was left of the Wardens and one of them was a horny idiot with a bird brain.  
_King Maric's son, my arse. Future ruler of Ferelden, my arse._  
He ripped Oathkeeper from the tree and shoved it angrily back into the sheath.  
While making his way back to camp, he crossed paths with Zevran.  
Of course. Who else? The elf smiled at him wide and gestured with his dagger, spinning it skillfully between his fingers.

“Dear Warden!” he called out to him, “I was just wondering if you would give me a pass as well.”

“No, thank you,” Alistair growled, and went by him without even a glance.

“Nevermind,” Zevran shrugged cheerfully.

Alistair still felt his amber eyes between his shoulders, all the way back to the camp. As crazy as it sounded, he almost wished they were already in Denerim, Landsmeet or not.  
At least it would all be over.


End file.
